


The Place You Want to Be

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: He’d had a plan, going into this, for how to work on the campaign and see Henry regularly. Pittsburgh is a stone’s-throw away from New York City, and Alex had thought he’d be home every weekend, at least.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 169
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Place You Want to Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayromantic/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, kayromantic. Thank you to Linny and Tabby for beta reading.

_“Progress means getting nearer to the place you want to be. And if you have taken a wrong turn, then to go forward does not get you any nearer._

_If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man.”_

_― C.S. Lewis_

\+ + +

“All right, listen up,” Alex says. “I want a nice clean campaign office. I want daily reports. Hourly reports if it’s important. I want us to run like the well-oiled political juggernaut we’re going to be when we take the electoral college by storm and win the presidency. _¿Estamos claros?_ ”

The room of wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears campaign staffers all stare back at him with varying degrees of awe and uncertainty. Alex remembers being them, not so long ago--what feels like a lifetime, now.

“Ground rules: If you finish the coffee, make another pot. I don’t care how late it is, someone will be working. If you fuck up the color-coding system, you answer to me. And if you don’t believe, heart and soul, in what we’re doing here--first let me convince you, and then find somewhere else to be.”

One of the volunteers - Alex honestly can’t tell them apart yet, there’s a whole crop of weedy UPenn graduates who feel responsible because this might be the first president from Pennsylvania since Buchanan - clears his throat.

“I don’t want to be the one to say it,” the volunteer begins - Alex notes this isn’t even remotely true or they _wouldn’t have_ \- “but I’m just hoping we get the nomination, and even that’s a long shot. America is never going to elect another Black President this soon.”

Alex points a severe finger. “I'm going to need you to walk that back and then walk yourself out of this office. We don't do racial negativity on my campaign, got it?”

“Your campaign?” one of the other volunteers asks dubiously.

“You see anyone else giving orders?” Alex asks. Wisely, no one answers. “Bulletin boards and filing cabinets, go. Don’t make it complicated. This office should be so organized that your drunk idiot cousin could find their way to the right mailbox in the dark at three am, because that’s what it’s going to feel like some nights. Does everyone understand the color system?”

Everyone does, or if they don’t, they aren’t admitting to it. Alex stands ready to loose his fleet of recent college graduates on the office armed with pushpins and highlighters, and gives his assembled army the final sweeping look of a general just before the charge into battle. It’s going to be Howard Burgess 2024 if Alex has anything to say about it; and he really does.

“Stay sharp. Stay focused. Don’t let anything slide. The smallest discrepancy could be enough to open an investigation that damages our credibility later down the line. And keep this shit locked down. What happens in this office stays in this office. We don’t need any rumors distracting from our message.”

“Yeah, or any international sex scandals,” someone sniggers, but it’s quiet enough that Alex can pretend not to hear it. He’d expected some flak from these kids. Three years ago when Alex’s life had been unraveling around him, they’d been sitting in undergrad classrooms imagining they knew better. He’s ready to let it go--up to a point.

There’s a murmur near the open door that starts building around the same smartmouth that just made the scandal comment, so Alex raises his voice and says, “ _Hey_. What did I _just say_? Stay focused on the campaign. No distractions.”

The murmur doesn’t abate. It travels through the crowd of volunteers in a wave of whispers and giggles, and Alex has drawn himself up and opened his mouth to berate them when he sees a familiar face that doesn’t belong anywhere near here. Shaan takes up a position at the door, giving Alex a brief nod of acknowledgement.

There’s only one possible reason for Shaan to be here right now. Alex’s stomach twists.

Right on schedule, a familiar blond head appears. The volunteers draw back automatically to give way and shift around him, like he’s one of those polarized magnets that repel iron filings.

“Er,” says Henry. “Hello.”

\+ + +

“What are you doing here?”

Alex asks the question as soon as they’re away from the rapt gazes of Henry’s newly-formed fan club. Being a charming golden prince, Henry tends to have that effect on other mere mortals.

They’d agreed, when Alex had taken this job, that they needed it to be circumspect. Alex on his own attracts a certain amount of attention; Alex and Henry together rate an appearance in every gossip magazine and blog in the country.

“I had much the same question,” Henry answers, and Alex stares at him, jaw dropped. The effect is lost on Henry, who is examining Alex’s makeshift office with a furrowed brow and expression of baffled curiosity. “Is this where you work? It’s the size of a closet.”

“It is a closet,” Alex retorts, gesturing at the narrow walls that surround his desk. It’s really a storage room, but that comes out to the same thing. It’s a glorified closet. A glorified closet with Alex’s desk in it, which he is therefore prepared to defend to the bitter end.

Henry doesn’t press him on it. Instead he frowns at Alex and asks, “Are they really just setting up the rest of the place? You’ve been here for weeks.”

“That was the prep work. Now we’re all set up, we can bring the volunteers in. Henry--what are you _doing_ here?”

“I thought you’d be further along,” Henry tells him, which isn’t much of an answer, but Alex is patient. He waits for the rest. “Or I thought you’d be home by now. I’ve had some news, and I wanted to share it in person.”

Alex’s mind goes blank, then wild with possibilities. One: Henry has cancer. Two: Henry’s entire family has cancer and Henry is about to be unexpectedly crowned king. Three: Henry has secretly been betrothed all along to a mystery princess from Lithuania. Four…

Alex realizes that the expression on Henry’s face is abashed, shyly pleased, just before he says, “They’re going ahead with the film option for my book. Immediately, in fact. It’s all happening rather quickly; they wanted to get it out in an election year. They’ve already begun.”

Alex’s jaw drops again. After a moment of staring at Henry, he flings himself forward, wrapping himself monkey-like around Henry, who staggers but has had enough practice by now with Alex’s impulsive embraces to keep them both upright.

“Baby, that’s _amazing_ ,” Alex says, and he means it. Henry’s book was on the bestseller list last year for nearly as many weeks as Michelle Obama. Part-memoir, part-fiction, it’s the not-entirely-true-story of how Alex and Henry fell in love, came out, and started their lives together.

The book was optioned for a film even before it was released, but Henry had said he’d expected it to take years before the project went anywhere.

“What does this mean?” Alex asks, pulling back to look at Henry’s face, and the smile tucked privately into the side of his cheek. “Are you writing the screenplay? Have they hired a director yet? Oh my God, have you started _dream casting_?”

Henry blinks a few times, and then laughs. “No. I mean...possibly, privately, but nothing serious. No, I haven’t thought of anyone handsome enough to play you,” Henry adds as Alex opens his mouth, before Alex can even get in the question. “And I’ll be a ‘creative consultant’, but they’ve hired professional screenwriters to do the adaptation. I’m as much in the dark right now as anyone, although they’ve said they’ll keep me up to date on developments.”

“You have to tell me everything,” Alex insists. “ _Everything_. Holy shit, I’m so proud of you.”

“It doesn’t entirely feel real,” Henry admits, and Alex knows how he feels. The book was one thing: They’d already been through seeing their private lives in print and dissected by the media once. The second time, at least, they’d had some control over it. A film is a whole new ball game.

“This calls for a celebration,” Alex declares, flinging an arm up and around Henry’s shoulders. “Let’s go find some champagne.”

“I don’t suppose the celebration could extend to having you home for a week or two,” Henry suggests hopefully, and Alex laughs.

“Not even close. But the champagne is definitely on me.”

\+ + +

Alex knows the media must have caught wind now that Alex is working for the Burgess campaign. For all that Henry likes to sneak out of Buckingham Palace and into the V&A at night on his visits home, a Prince of England isn’t exactly a quiet presence. Alex doesn’t have time to do more than skim the Google Alerts the next morning, so he goes straight to his gossip source.

how bad are the rumors?

BUG  
Henry’s endorsing Burgess.  
Mom’s endorsing Burgess.  
Mom’s endorsing Jennison and this  
is you flipping her the political bird.  
You’re having an affair with someone  
on Burgess’ campaign and Henry flew  
to Pittsburgh to try to win you back.  
That’s my personal favorite.

ooh, haven’t had a cheating affair story  
in a while  
anyone hot?

BUG  
‘Mystery man.’ So maybe, maybe not.

why is it always a man now?  
is the b in bisexual really silent?

BUG  
Quit your whining. You should see how  
much tail you’re getting in the first draft  
of the film script.

YOU’VE READ IT? HOW?

BUG  
I have friends in high places.  
And Henry called to ask if I thought it  
was an inaccurate depiction of you in  
your misspent youth.  
I told him you were a total slag. All that  
free time you had, between mom’s  
campaign and college. Pussy galore.

you did not say that  
i’m telling nora what a horrible  
feminist you are

BUG  
Eh. She knows.

so that’s it? i’m a slutty, promiscuous  
bisexual?

BUG  
Weren’t you just complaining about the  
‘B’ being silent?  
According to the tabloids, your bigger  
issue is with the ‘D’ being unfulfilling.  
Ba-dum ching.

you’re hilarious

BUG  
Oh, this one has a picture.  
You and the mystery man.  
[img attached]

holy SHIT that’s SHAAN

BUG  
It’s really blurry. Probably why it  
only got picked up once.

oh my god

BUG  
Zahra’s going to break your kneecaps.  
Or have Amy do it.  
With a knitting needle.

please zahra could break me with  
her pinkie finger  
gotta go if i start running now  
she might not catch me

BUG  
Ha ha good luck with that.

\+ + +

“What are you wearing?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then Henry asks, “Before I answer that, what are the chances this call is being wiretapped?”

“Very high, so let’s make it worth their while. Tell me about that thing you like with the egg whisk and the shaving cream.”

Henry’s chuckle is low and warm, and if Alex weren’t wearing Airpods for the walk to the pizza place around the corner, he’d press his phone to his ear to hear it more clearly. He misses Henry, a constant ache; they’re separated by a single state line that might as well be across the country, for all the time Alex has to spare for visits home.

He’d had a plan, going into this, for how to work on the campaign and see Henry regularly. Pittsburgh is a stone’s-throw away from New York City, and Alex had thought he’d be home every weekend, at least.

It hasn’t worked out that way. Alex has managed to keep a few days clear, for the most part, but Henry still has foundations to run and royal appearances and other obligations, and their schedules taken together are a disaster. Whenever Alex seems to get two days free in a row, Henry is halfway around the world. Whenever Henry is home, Alex has work.

Alex hadn’t meant to get involved in this election cycle at all. He was supposed to be practicing law, building his credentials, gearing up for a campaign thirteen years in the future.

Then he’d met Howard Burgess.

It had been at a White House party, of all things, one of the functions no one took seriously except for the people who had to, and Alex had gone on a whim, scoping out the field for Democratic candidates to follow President Claremont. He hadn’t expected much, but there had been Congressman Burgess, speaking quietly and commandingly to a small crowd of listeners, and Alex had slowed his roll and his quest for artichoke cheesecake hors d'oeuvres, and listened too.

When Burgess had officially announced his run, Alex had been one of the first to sign on.

“I have some news about the film. Casting,” Henry says, which brings Alex back to the present, and the reason for his call.

“Oh shit, I saw! It’s on IMDB. That’s true, then? It still says ‘rumored’.”

“No, it’s real,” Henry confirms. “I only found out myself a moment ago, through unofficial channels. They’re in contract negotiations, but it’s essentially done.”

“Benjamin Worthing,” Alex pronounces, purring the ‘R’. “Dreamy.”

Benjamin Worthing is, according to numerous sources that do include Alex, dreamy. He’s the new Benedict Cumberbatch; tall, chiseled, posh, and an acting legacy of famous film-actor parents. He’s also, as of this morning, cast to play Prince Henry in the upcoming film adaptation of a significant year of Alex’s life. He’s close to Henry’s age, and while his hair’s too honey-blond dark as it is, Alex can kind of see it.

Henry coughs. “Yes, well, I thought I’d let you know, because we’ll likely be seeing each other, that Benjy and I…”

“Wait, hold up,” Alex interrupts. “ _Benjy?_ ”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Henry says. “The thing is, Benjy and I…”

“Oh my god, are you serious right now?” Alex demands, as Henry’s embarrassed tone finally clicks. “ _Benjamin Worthing?_ ”

“It was a long time ago,” Henry says, sounding defensive and apologetic, which is characteristic of Henry and wildly different from how Alex would be announcing this news. If he’d nailed the hottest British heartthrob under 30 (apart from Henry, obviously), he’d be gloating. Shouting it from the rooftops. Possibly hiring a skywriter.

“He was my first, actually,” Henry continues, adding to Alex’s incredulity. “Our fathers were friends. They worked on several projects together.”

“Hold up a minute,” Alex says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk and causing a minor pedestrian pile-up as people swerve to avoid him. The magnitude of what this means is just now dawning on him. “Are you telling me that you can now say you’ve actually _fucked yourself?_ ”

There’s another pause. “This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined you would take the news,” Henry says after a moment.

Alex is laughing too hard to reply.

\+ + +

Alex doesn’t read the first draft of the script - he doesn’t have time, with the campaign ramping up and the DNC looming distantly on the horizon - but he gets the occasional update from Henry and June, both of whom he trusts to have his interests at heart. Most of the time it’s innocuous comments, _you were never this funny_ from June or _I hear this in your voice every time I read the line_ from Henry, but one raises a red flag.

 _They’re adding a lot more about me and Henry in draft rewrites_ , June warns him by text. _Just FYI._

Alex stares at that for a minute, then texts back, _They know that was fake, right? They know we faked it._

 _I know_ , June replies, an agonizing three minutes later (not that Alex is watching his phone clock). _They seem to think love triangles add drama._

Alex goes to his closet office and sits down behind his desk. He gives that a long hard think - about how Henry is gay, and always has been, where Alex isn’t and hasn’t - before he writes back, _If they’re adding you in for drama…_

He doesn’t even have to finish it; the ellipsis bubble of June typing appears almost as soon as he hits send.

_Yep. Nora too._

Alex spins in his office chair - sort of; he can’t make it the whole way around without banging into the wall, but he can go one direction and then back the other - until he finally decides he doesn’t know how he feels, but he needs to ask someone else.

“Is this more important than district population demographics? Because I’m a little busy right now.” Nora answers the phone the same way Alex does; straight to the point, no small talk. Alex thinks fondly of their past two years together at college and is a little surprised by how much he misses her.

“Not really,” Alex admits; and then, because he’s got her on the phone and it really is bothering him, “It’s just...some stuff with the film? Henry’s book?”

“Oh.” There’s some noise on the other end, papers swishing together and the thunk of something heavy probably being shoved off a desk, and then Nora’s voice returns. “June said you guys already had the bisexual erasure talk. Is this round two, or something different?”

“Different,” Alex answers, although there’s that, too; Nora gets it, but Alex doesn’t need any reassurance from her about people remembering he likes women, given the reason for his call. “It’s...June says they’re adding in some stuff about you and me in the film.”

“Oh.” There’s a different quality to the syllable this time, and when Nora speaks again, she’s closer somehow, her attention obviously focused on Alex. “I mean, yeah. I didn’t know, she didn’t tell me about it, but I kind of expected it, you know?”

“Is it because we went on that one date?” Alex is whining, he knows he is; he doesn’t know why this is getting under his skin, except that he remembers how gutted and hollow the charade had left Henry, and how Alex had wanted to scream the truth the entire time.

“No, babe. It’s because we’re women, and that’s how women appear in movies. What else are they going to do with us? It’s your big love story, yours and Henry’s, but everyone says you can’t sell anything without sex appeal.”

“They have _Benjamin Worthing_ ,” Alex points out, adding before he can think better of it and stop his mouth, “Did you know he and Henry have fucked?”

“No shit.” Nora sounds satisfyingly impressed by that news. “Hot. Not the point, though. It’s a big-budget film, they’re going to have June and I - or whatever versions of us - slinking around tempting you away from your one true gay love and making everything complicated. If I had to guess, they’re going to rewrite it so that you and I are dating, instead of having it years in the past, and that June’s dance with Henry at Philip’s wedding is the start of their love story. It makes narrative sense. Adds conflict. And again-”

There’s a pause, and then the unpleasant open-mouthed crunching of something deeply unhealthy becoming Nora’s afternoon snack (or more likely, lunch). “-what else are they going to do with us?”

Alex calls bullshit. Then he adds, “That fucking _sucks_.”

“I know, babe, but what can you do? They’re not going to take it out. Hollywood eats up love triangles even when nobody wants them. You know it’s not _us_.”

Alex kicks the leg of his desk, which isn’t nearly as satisfying as he wants it to be. “Hey, how’s the new job going?”

“Brilliant,” Nora answers promptly. “And I can’t tell you any more than that, because I’m independent and bound by privacy contracts.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Alex tells her, because she is. When he runs for office, he’s not letting anyone else crunch his polling data numbers. He only wants the best, and Nora is going to be it.

“I’m already amazing,” she tells him. “Gotta go, but thanks for calling.”

“Hey,” Alex says impulsively, “do you think we’re making the right move, setting up headquarters in Pittsburgh rather than Philly? We’re hoping it brings in the midwest, but I think we need to put more work into the northeast.”

“A,” Nora answers, “it’s the digital age, it really doesn’t matter. B, what’s your job on this campaign, Alex? What are you doing again?

“Legal,” Alex sighs, and kicks the desk leg again.

“What are you not doing?”

“Anything useful,” Alex grumbles.

“ _Policy_. Or strategy, so get back to your actual job. Oh, and call Henry. If this is bugging you, it’s going to be bugging him too.”

“Love you,” Alex sing-songs, to the accompanying symphonic crunch of another mouthful of junk food.

“Busy,” Nora sings back, laughing, and hangs up on him.

\+ + +

Alex means to call Henry, he does, but there’s work on his desk and then a wave of endorsements, and somehow it’s a week later and he hasn’t actually talked to Henry about the whole possibly-being-written-as-less-gay issue.

They’ve talked, but it’s mostly been Alex checking in at the end of the work day, which is really the work night, with the hours Alex keeps, and they’ve managed one round of half-asleep phone sex and a handful of conversations that cover the basics and not much else.

He doesn’t really worry about it. Henry tells him about the table read in a month, and Alex promises to be there. Henry already sounds nervous about it, and says, _I want you by my side, love_ in a way that Alex can’t imagine rejecting.

His phone goes off just as Alex has crashed a meeting he doesn’t technically belong in, and he skims the alert before sliding into an empty seat far down the conference table, giving the campaign manager a winning smile, and texting June.

henry’s posting haiku on twitter again  
i need you to find out what’s going on

BUG  
Sometimes I feel as though I’m  
shouldering the emotional  
responsibilities of dating a Prince  
of England without any of the perks.

stop talking about my boyfriend’s perks  
the second warning sign is cute animal  
photos  
if david pops up on instagram wearing  
scarves we’re in meltdown

BUG  
He’s probably just worried about  
the film script.  
His family is putting a lot of  
pressure on him over how they’re  
portrayed.  
It’s been giving Henry hives since  
he found out he wouldn’t have  
creative control.

see, you two have that mystical  
writer bond

BUG  
If by that you mean we can  
effectively communicate in writing,  
why yes, Alex. They teach that in  
kindergarten.

hey we communicate effectively  
just the other day i texted a photo of  
him from that charity polo match with  
the caption ‘ride that pony’

BUG  
You’re hilarious.  
You’re coming to the NOW luncheon  
next month, right?

what do you have some kind of big  
inspiring speech that’s being read or  
something?

BUG  
Asshole.

[poop emoji]

\+ + +

**Your heart if not your words**

 **A** < agcd@eclare45.com >  
To Henry

H,

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to ask this; I guess I thought it was confidential and you couldn’t talk about it. I’d like to read the script if you can share it with me. It’s our story, it’s important to you, and I want to share that with you. Unless you’d rather I be surprised when it comes out, but you know me, I don’t think I could stay unspoiled within like, a day of the opening.

There’s really fuck-all to do in Pittsburgh, and I can’t find decent elotes anywhere. I miss New York. I say that, but what I really miss is you. That’s not an invitation to come out here and throw everything into chaos again, by the way, I’ve only just gotten Zahra to forgive me for landing Shaan in the tabloids. I just wish I could see you.

Have I told you that I see you everywhere? I blame your surprise visit; now every time I see someone tall, or blond, or modeling this season’s entire Burberry catalogue in one outfit, I think it’s you. I miss the way your shoulders set, and the stretch of your thighs, and your mouth. I miss the way you tuck me under your chin when you hug me, like you want to make sure there’s room for me. I miss your fingers on the piano. I miss you.

\- A

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**Henry** < hwales@kensingtonemail.com >  
To A

Alex,

Of course you can read the script. It’s changing every day, and likely will all through filming, I’m told, but there’s a shape to it now. It’s not quite what I thought it would be, but then neither was the book, once it was finished. I knew the shape of it in my mind, but not the hundreds of moments strung together that make it what it is, a story told in fragments that make up that singular whole.

I know the shape of you, intimately, but there are moments, fragments, that make you who you are, and when I learn those, even knowing the shape of you as I do, I’m always surprised and humbled. You bring me to my knees.

I’ve been trying to remember that a book, like a film, or a poem or a painting, is art; and once you release art into the world, it takes on a life of its own, beyond what you imagined for it. That’s part of the beauty of art, the meaning others find in it, and the way an artist can see their own work anew, through the eyes of those experiencing it.

This film is going to be my book seen through new eyes, and I’m trying to find the joy and wonder in that, to appreciate the shape of it, rather than worry about the dozens of moments strung together to make it a whole.

Yours,  
Henry

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**A** < agcd@eclare45.com >  
To Henry

H,

I’ve only read the first few scenes so far; I’ve been trying to read before bed so I can focus on it. Maybe I’m only imagining things, but I can still hear your voice in it.

Any word yet on who’s going to be playing me? Is Jesus Luz available? He might not have my dashing good looks, but I guess he’d be all right.

Do you remember the mural of us, on the wall in D.C.? That’s our art. That’s our legacy. This film is one more version of our story that’s going to change the world for someone else after us.

\- A

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**Henry** < hwales@kensingtonemail.com >  
To A

Alex,

I cannot fault your taste. I find out about casting at the same time everyone else does, as you’ve already seen, but I find it difficult to imagine anyone else who shines with your fire. From the first moment I saw you, you burned more brilliantly than the sun; so much that it hurt to look at you.

I don’t know if I’ve told you, but I’ve taken up baking to fill the hours while you’re not here to distract me. Pez came last week for a visit and declared my tea cake ‘passable’. I’ve been watching Paul Hollywood demolish my countrymen’s hopes and dreams over the consistency of their icing sugar, and find it strangely motivational. That might be Gran’s influence.

It’s too quiet without you here. You said you missed my playing the piano, but the truth is I’ve hardly played since you left. There’s no one to listen and only my thoughts for company. I’ve left the BBC on instead. It can be monotonous, but at least it keeps the silence from being too oppressive. Who would have thought it could be this quiet in New York?

Yours,  
Henry

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**A** < agcd@eclare45.com >  
To Henry

H,

Almost finished with the script. They changed our Star Wars references to _Marvel_? What the FUCK? How am I Black Widow?? They spent their entire relationship lying to and manipulating each other, how is that us?

I’m sorry I’m not there. You said you were okay with me taking this job when we talked about it. I know neither of us knew exactly what it would be like being apart for so long this time, but it’s not like we haven’t done it before. At least I don’t have to make an excuse to fly to Europe just to see you now.

\- A

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**Henry** < hwales@kensingtonemail.com >  
To A

Alex,

It’s a film adaptation of a semi-biographical novel. It isn’t us. It’s a fictional interpretation of us, and they’re allowed to take some poetic license. I’m told it will help to connect with a modern audience, though personally I don’t think you can ever go wrong with a classic. Also I believe they had some difficulty procuring image rights.

I knew this was important to you, but when I agreed, I failed to recall the differences between your elections and ours. The campaign period is 25 days in my country, which is a sensible length of time. I didn’t realize you’d be gone for the better part of a year.

I’m not trying to make excuses, I’m only saying that it’s been harder than I realized, living without you. Not being able to see you, or touch you, or even hear your voice some days. I know this will be over one day, but right now it feels endless. I’m adrift on the sea, and I’ve become accustomed to having you as my anchor.

I’m trying to remind myself that it’s only a few weeks until I see you, and to be patient until then. I’ve imagined our reunion in a hundred ways, one for each day we’ve been apart.

Yours,  
Henry

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**A** < agcd@eclare45.com >  
To Henry

H,

Wait, what’s happening in a few weeks?

Fuck, is this your reading thing?

Is that THIS month? FUCK.

\- A

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**Henry** < hwales@kensingtonemail.com >  
To A

Alex,

The first table read with the full cast, yes. I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve forgotten; your invitation is still sitting on your bureau in the bedroom, along with all the rest of your mail.

Do tell me you’re still coming.

Yours,  
Henry

**Re: Your heart if not your words**

**A** < agcd@eclare45.com >  
To Henry

H,

Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it snuck up on me. That’s a huge donor night, there’s a MAJOR fundraiser, I’m already scheduled to make appearances in like three places even before the party.

I’m sorry. I know how much this meant to you. Means to you. Fuck, I’m really sorry.

I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Right after the election.

\- A

\+ + +

Henry hasn’t replied to Alex’s last e-mail by the time he goes to work the next morning. Alex’s thumbs are hovering over the letters to write a text when a new alert lights up his phone, and every other thought flies out of his head.

He’s incandescent with fury by the time he visits enough gossip and cinephile websites to confirm that it isn’t just a rumour, and then he’s texting Henry, fingers shaking on the keys.

He texts June next, knowing she’ll have seen the same alert, not bothering to start with context.

_TIMOTHEE CHALAMET?!_

Her answer buzzes in his hands less than a minute later. _I know. I just saw it._

_TIMOTHEE. FUCKING. CHALAMET._

One of his volunteer staff appears in his doorway, takes one look at Alex’s face, and does an about-face, squeaking out something about it being able to wait.

When Alex glances back down, June has written: _Don’t make me say it._

 _say it_ , Alex texts, practically spitting the letters. _fucking say it._

There’s a long pause, longer there should be for the message that appears.

_He can pass._

_HE’S FUCKING WHITE_ , Alex sends.

June doesn’t reply, but Henry does, finally: _I’m sorry. I didn’t know._

Alex calls, but Henry doesn’t pick up. Neither does June, when he tries her next.

Nora does, probably because she either hasn’t been forewarned of Alex’s current mood, or doesn’t know yet what’s going on.

It turns out to be neither of those.

“June says she isn’t talking to you until you calm down,” Nora informs him, “and if you start yelling at me, I’m hanging up.”

“I’m being fucking _whitewashed_ ,” Alex says plaintively, in lieu of yelling the way he really wanted to. “Like, they’re not even trying.”

“I know, it sucks,” Nora agrees sympathetically. “For what it’s worth, Pez says to tell you he ‘feels you, bro.’”

“When did you have time to talk to Pez?”

“We have a Snapchat thread. How do you think June got us so fast?”

June’s influence where Nora and Pez are concerned isn’t something Alex ever questions; it just is.

“I’ve got half an hour, tops,” Nora warns him. “Start talking.”

Alex does. He tells her about the table read and the fundraiser, and the love of his life being turned into The Hulk, and how excited the fucking celebrity spotters are for a white kid to play out the most important year of Alex’s life because that kid has fucking dark brown curls; and then about how the script paints Alex as being straight until Henry ‘turns him gay’, and how fucking marginalized and invisible he feels, knowing other kids with questions about themselves are going to be seeing that and thinking it means their identities aren’t valid, because what Alex tried to be was an emblem of hope, and what they’re getting now is a straight white male in a badly-written love triangle who just happens to bag a prince.

Nora listens to him while he spills his guts down the phone line, and then there’s a long stretch of silence. Finally she says, “Listen. Burgess isn’t going to get the nomination.”

“He might,” Alex says automatically, thrown by the sudden left-turn in their conversation.

“He won’t,” Nora says, implacable. “I’ve seen the numbers. I shouldn’t be telling you, but I am. This isn’t a margin of error; he can’t build enough momentum to compete. That doesn’t actually matter, but I’m telling you this because I think you need to hear it.”

“Okay,” says Alex, confused.

“Are you happy with what you’re doing right now? Because you’re missing something that’s important to you _and_ Henry over a fundraiser that’s not even your event. No one who works in the legal department on a primary campaign needs to be sipping champagne with high-level donors.”

“People know who I am,” Alex defends. “I can use that.”

“Listen to me. This isn’t even your dream, Alex. This isn’t why you went to law school. _That’s_ your dream, everything you just told me, about making a difference and being a champion for equality. Being seen and heard, you and Henry, getting your story out there and telling others.”

“This is important too,” Alex says, not really knowing why he’s being so stubborn about it.

He gets what she’s saying. Half of what he does in this office isn’t his job. He doesn’t need to be here as late as he is, or to sit in on as many meetings as he does. It’s just that he can see it in his mind all over again, his beloved home state on the electoral map in 2016 turning from eggshell blue to pale pink. He doesn’t want that to happen to Burgess in Pennsylvania.

“It opens the door a little wider; I’m not saying it doesn’t. It’s minority visibility in a presidential election. But there will be other elections, and this one doesn’t depend on you.”

Alex puts his head down on the desk. “I can’t quit now,” he mumbles into the woodgrain.

“Okay,” says Nora patiently. “Then figure out what you want to do next.”

\+ + +

Somehow the days slip past until it’s suddenly the day before the fundraiser, and Alex still hasn’t figured out what he wants to do next. He’s buried himself in work, but even that doesn’t erase the looming deadline, just distracts him from deciding what to do about it.

He hasn’t heard from Henry in days; Alex had meant to reach out and apologize again, but he’d lost track of time and Henry has stopped trying to reach him.

The thing is, he and Henry haven't really fought before. They've quarreled, but it's been Henry ghosting and Alex chasing him or the two of them against the world, never this. Never Alex looking up one day to realize it's been weeks since the last time he checked Henry's social media accounts or called home.

When he does check, the first photograph on Henry's Instagram is of Henry and a broadly-smiling, devastatingly-attractive Benjamin Worthing, their arms around each other’s shoulders, posing for a selfie at what is unmistakably the kitchen table at the NYC brownstone.

Alex doesn't know how he hasn't been bombarded by tabloid gossip from June. Then he wonders if it's because June worries there might be a grain of truth to any rumors, and wants to keep him from getting hurt.

Alex closes out the photo without reading the caption, feeling sick to his stomach. He texts Nora with: _I think I fucked up._

He’s just settling into a serious pity party for himself when his phone buzzes with a text.

[Group (3) Bug, Nora, Unknown]

BUG  
This is an intervention. Pay attention.

whose number is this other one?

NORA  
Princess Bea.

UNKNOWN  
Hello, Alex!

BUG  
We’ve decided collectively that you  
need a kick in the ass and are here  
to help.

NORA  
We’ve also had martinis!

wait you’re all together right now?  
are you seriously drinking  
without me?  
did you just want to kick me while  
i’m down?

BUG  
Shockingly, not everything is about  
you.

mr hollywood star power noble  
virgin flower-stealer is currently  
at my house with his arm around  
my boyfriend  
this is absolutely about me

UNKNOWN  
You have a point.  
But please don’t talk that way  
about my brother.

BUG  
Where are you right now?  
Anything that is not ‘at the airport’  
is the wrong answer.

NORA  
Or the train station!

i told you i can’t just leave

NORA  
BZZT. Wrong!

UNKNOWN  
You have more responsibilities  
than a job now.  
You’re a royal suitor.

NORA  
You know on The Crown when the  
king says ‘she’s the job’?  
That’s you and Henry.

UNKNOWN  
Oh I loved that part.

am i needed for this conversation?

BUG  
Do you need me to spell this out  
for you?  
Henry hasn’t been through you  
disappearing into work like this.

excuse you henry was with me  
through LAW SCHOOL

BUG  
Yeah, *with you*, not a train ride  
away.  
You were in it together.  
Be in it together now.  
Get your head out of your ass.

UNKNOWN  
And then get your ass back to New  
York.

NORA  
What Bea said.

BUG  
The table read is TOMORROW,  
asshole.  
Get on a fucking plane.

\+ + +

Alex gets on a fucking plane.

He spends the entire flight thinking about what he’ll say to Henry when he arrives, and how to handle ‘Benjy’ without wanting to punch his smug Henry-kissing face. He makes step-by-step lists: One, kiss Henry, preferably in front of the ex; Two, tell Henry he’s leaving the campaign and coming home; Three, abject groveling for forgiveness...but all his plans dissolve the minute he lets himself in.

It’s too quiet. There’s no Shaan, no Benjamin Worthing...no Henry. Alex searches the first floor, calling out in case he’s just overlooked something obvious, and then he climbs the stairs to their bedroom.

It’s neat as a pin, and the knot in the pit of Alex’s stomach grows as he looks for clues. Henry’s coat isn’t there. Nor is his shaving kit. There are empty hangers on his side of the closet.

Alex thunders back down the stairs to the hall closet, heart pounding in his throat.

Henry’s suitcase is missing.

“No,” Alex says aloud, and with increasing volume, “no no no, fuck!”

He calls Henry. He’d tried earlier, twice, but it had gone straight to voicemail. This time it rings out, but Henry doesn’t pick up.

“Call me,” Alex begs the voicemail after the beep. “Baby, please.”

He paces the hallway. He goes upstairs, to see how much is missing. It can’t be much; Henry must have packed a single bag and left. Alex wonders where he is. With Bea, drinking martinis? With Pez? In L.A. with tall, blond, and handsome? Alex sits on the stairs and unlocks his phone to text - June, Nora, Bea, all three - but can’t think of a word to say.

His phone rings. The ID still says ‘HRH Prince Dickhead [poop emoji]’, and Alex jams the ‘answer’ button so hard that his phone flips out of his hands and tumbles down the stairs.

“Fuck, _fuck!_ ” Alex yells, tumbling after it, scooping it up from the landing and demanding breathlessly, “Henry?”

“Hello love.” Henry sounds confused, as well he might, but also not necessarily like a man who’s calling to tell his lover that he’s walked out to have an affair with a film star on a sunny beach somewhere. “Sorry, I missed your calls.”

“Where _are_ you?” Alex spins around on the landing with his free arm outstretched, as if to make clear the lack of Henry around him, and nearly loses the phone again.

“I’m…” There’s a pause, and apparently a consultation, muffled in the background. “Fifteen minutes out, if the GPS is to believed. We’ve hit traffic, but I shouldn’t be long.”

Alex comes to a complete standstill and stares blankly at the wall. He’s right in front of the unofficial suitor picture from Hyde Park, the one that captured Henry’s smile and re-captured Alex’s heart. Alex looks at Henry’s face in the photo like it will have all the answers he’s missing.

“You’re...in Pittsburgh?” Alex asks slowly, sure that can’t be right.

“You said this was important to you. I asked them to move the table read later by a day. I thought we might go together, if they can spare you.”

Alex feels a slightly hysterical laugh building up in his chest. “I’m not in Pittsburgh.”

There’s a pause. “Where are _you_?”

“I’m in fucking _Brooklyn_ ,” Alex whoops, and there, the laugh is out, dizzy relief surging for an outlet. “I’m standing in our fucking house, ready to beg you on my knees to take me back.”

“Oh.” Another moment of consideration on the other end of the line, and then Henry says, “Well. Hold that thought for a bit?”

Alex laughs again. “Oh _fuck_ no. I’ve got something _so much better_ to do on my knees when I finally see you.” He shakes his head, turns, and falls back against the wall with a thunk. “I can’t believe you flew to Pittsburgh for me. Sweetheart, we have _got_ to get our romantic gesture shit coordinated.”

“Quite.” Henry clears his throat, and when Alex closes his eyes, he can see the faint pink in Henry’s cheeks, hiding beneath his dry tone. “Should I...just wait here then?”

“No.” Alex pushes off from the wall and starts hunting for where he’d finally dropped his keys. “No, I’m leaving the campaign. We said this was the important shit--activism, civil rights, youth advocacy. This is where I need to be. Wait,” he amends, halting. “Where’s the table read? Do you want me to just meet you there?”

There was an invitation for him, Henry had said. In the bedroom. Alex climbs back up the stairs, two at a time.

There’s another muffled conference. Alex hears _he flew to Brooklyn_ from Henry, and another voice, possibly Zahra, ask, _are you fucking kidding me?_

“I’ll text you once we have a hotel,” Henry says, clear again in Alex’s ear. “We’re turning around now. You’ll need a plane to L.A., and we can get you from there. I’ll see you tonight?”

His voice is hesitant but hopeful, and Alex’s chest swells with emotion at the sound of it.

“Yeah,” he says, his own voice rough. “Yeah, I’ll see you on the other side.”


End file.
